----------------------------------------
As he journeyed in both elegance and torment, he was struck by the third astonishing revelation of his existence. Abruptly, the coachman released a cry of alarm, halting the steeds abruptly. This coachman, like all retainers bound to Mark Ellery, bore an essence nearly as void of hearing and speech as one could be, yet still clinging to his senses. Phillips lifted his gaze and saw two silhouettes emerging from the gloom of the road ahead. His lord, Mark Ellery, strode with a sinister vigor and an unsettling joy reminiscent of times long past; his eyes burned fiercely, and a twisted smile curled his lips—the smile that once signaled delight but now harbingered something more malevolent. Clasped in his grip, prancing with a deceptive innocence beside him, was a child. This was no mere peasant’s offspring despite its bare feet and exposed tangled hair; even its pink garment hung in ragged shreds, dancing in the cruel wind—a spectral presence amid desolation. The very child lamented as deceased within the opulent walls where once frivolous excess knew no bounds.
That ill-fated child whose tiny hat—sodden, shattered yet still brimming with fading blossoms—had been retrieved that day by the bereaved matron who now lies broken atop her luxurious chaise longue: emerging from one fainting fit only to succumb to nerve-shattering cries and being engulfed by another paroxysm of despair—for within most women brews the maternal instinct which may stir too tardily. The child for whom they had probed every shadowy pond and concealed watery grave along the river that meandered through forests and fields before depositing the flowery headdress at the town’s edge, directly before her frantic father as he embarked on what he believed to be his final harrowing quest.
Yet there ran the same child—neither deceased nor abducted nor bewildered—frolicking and skipping, tethered to Mark Ellery’s hand: prattling incessantly as some impish spirit while her locks danced with each whim of the chilling May breeze.
“Their coats were of the purest white! Mark, behold the steeds as pale as death itself, exactly as you foretold. My heart swells with love for you! But who lurks yonder? Is that the silhouette of a man? Does he truly exist, or is he but an apparition? Why does his gaze resemble that of a lifeless puppet? Is there a key to wind him from behind? An open maw, yet silent—does it beckon forth speech?”
“Silence is his eternal companion,” cackled the dwarf malevolently. “He would be wise to hold his tongue. Speaking ill affects the wellness of his being, doesn’t it, Phillips? Observe closely, my pale Snow-white; our carriage has ceased its weary trek. We shall enter its morbid embrace and retreat to our dwelling, where your mother awaits. Indeed, you yearn for home more than life itself; she’ll likely bear sinister trinkets from New York’s shadowed streets.”
“She is oftentimes a bearer of grim delights!” exclaimed the child with an ominous glint. “Yet, I am bound to this place by unseen chains; in a time not far hence, we shall return here together, shan’t we, Mark? To dwell amidst the living shadows that know our names? For you understand the dark pact we’ve forged.”
“Aye, Snow-white,” Mark solemnly affirmed. “Should our fates allow—and if those who spawned us consent—we may find ourselves crossing this threshold once again.”
“For the watchful squirrels in their hidden enclaves!”
“Yes, I am burdened with such knowledge.”
“And the winged creatures of dusk! Do you ponder if the crumbs we offer will sustain them throughout eternity’s embrace? Do you suppose that Cousin Goldfinch decoded your whispered warnings? Is Simeon cloaked in solitude? Poor beast! Speak, why do you withhold your forbidden lore from me, Mark?
“Speak your truth into the void,” he intoned.
“The cattle beast!”
“And what doom awaits her under your foreboding gaze?”
“You must listen closely,” she whispered her voice like the rustling of dead leaves. “You are aware that creatures born not of myth but flesh demand our care; we have pronounced her reality into existence as surely as we breathe cursed air!”
“Yonder figure shall attend to her needs,” assured Mark through a twisted semblance of a smile, gesturing towards their silent companion. “Tell me Phillips, have you tasted such otherworldly essence as comes from drawing forth milk?”
Phillips remained unspeaking—a forsaken sentinel—and the child openly declared his spirit was wound down to nothingness.
They returned to the town under the cloak of twilight, the carriage cutting a silent swathe through the shadowy streets. Onlookers would halt, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination, their whispers spilling into the night like dark secrets as they beheld the somber procession. They approached the grand manor, which seemed to loom ominously, its marble steps flanked by white ribbons fluttering like specters in the wind, crowned by white roses that were like ghastly omens marking a young soul’s lamented departure from the world. The child’s innocence was betrayed by curiosity as she inquired about the ribbons, mistaking them for harbingers of celebration; yet an unusual silence met her questions. The carriage shuddered to a halt. Desperation gripped her as she clung fiercely to Mark Ellery’s neck.
“Will you lead me into its depths, Mark?”
“Yes, my Snow-white specter.”
“Will you bear me up its cold steps and past these chilling doors?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Yes, my Snow-white specter.”
“Because my heart belongs to you! Because it’s you I adore beyond the—”
“Quiet now, my child! Silence, my dear little ghost!”
----------------------------------------
The pallid-faced butler ripped away the streamers with a wild ferocity, casting them into the shadows behind him as he flung open the door. His tongue was tied by an unnamed dread, yet his eyes pleaded desperately with the somber noble who loomed in the threshold, a child clasped ominously in his arms.
“Yes,” intoned Mark Ellery, his voice echoing with a chilling finality, “I shall enter, Barton. Lead me to your lady.”
----------------------------------------
James Phillips lingered in the shadow-clad carriage just beyond, his gaze settling upon the swarm of townsfolk. The whispers had transfused into the night; an infectious murmur that ushered forth both man and woman, each clamoring with queries etched in a blend of hope and disbelief. Could the rumors hold a sliver of truth? Who bore witness? There stood James Phillips; what tale did his lips carry? Was the offspring recovered from the abyss? Breathed she still? Had Mark Ellery wrested her back from the clutches of darkness?
They thronged, their voices a crescendo around the carriage. Phillips, cloaked in solemn duty through murmured directives, presented to them only a mask of stoicism. Affirming their hopes with a chilling certainty: it was so. Ellery had indeed retrieved the young soul. Yes, untouched by harm’s cruel hand, she was alive and whole. Yes, within the very walls of Ellery’s dwelling she now rested; her savior among them in his abode. The morrow would see him resume his place amongst them.
Yet amidst the relief, a new enigma tore at their curiosity with its talons—just as profound as resurrection’s own grasp. “Where lay Ellery’s path during his absence?” cried out the ravenous crowd. “Speak, James Phillips!”
Phillips’ mind wrestled with agonizing brevity against a shroud of enigmas, seeking an ember of myth or legend to unveil but yielding to the grim familiarity of a tale oft-told:
“He has traversed the merciless expanse of Thibet—pursuing the spectral wild ass!”
The avian creatures were confounded by the sudden shift in their world. For countless sunrises, in an unspoken ritual, they had flung themselves against the clear barriers, craving a diversion from their usual fare of serpentine morsels. Such was their custom when desiring the peculiar but savory food scattered by a silent benefactor—a friend who knew neither wing nor beak but offered sustenance without struggle or wriggle. Round him they would dance mid-air, alighting upon his crown and digits, chirping the latest whispers of the woodland; he, ever-engrossed by tales of hatching and fledgling pride. Though his attempts at song were but awkward echoes, his intentions resonated with warmth and generosity, earning him undying affection and shielding him from mockery.
But that presence had vanished into thin air, leaving bewilderment in its wake. They struck at the invisible barriers with no avail or answer. In their search for wisdom, they chattered with bushy-tailed confidants who relayed their woes to Simeon Stylites. With a heart heavy as stone, he descended from his lofty perch and braved the red, cavernous spire that rose stark above abode and wood. Shadows swallowed time before his figure reemerged—his fur now as dark as death’s own plume. Yet his words whispered comfort despite his transformation; it was as if the belly of their world had sprouted fur as black as night itself. The sanctum below remained untouched save for the absence of their cherished companion. Hoarding nuts for his travail, Simeon vanished into the waning light.
Eons seemed to pass while feathered beings keened and dove about the dwelling that stood cold and oblivious; stooped beneath a mountain’s stony gaze. The tendrils of climbing plants snaked down its sides like verdant wraiths lamenting in silence—no visage greeted them, no voice responded to their serenade; not a soul proffered the usual bounty. The homestead lingered in mute stillness, swathed in creeping shadow—a stark silhouette etched upon the monolith wall that hung behind like an ominous specter.
----------------------------------------
Thus it looms, the abode ensconced within the ever-changing forest that blooms, withers, and crumbles annually. Yet annually, at the zenith of spring when the mayflowers unfurl their warm, rosy petals atop the decayed foliage, the master of this dwelling returns. He treks with a fatigue-laden gait and furrowed brow—life’s unceasing torrent inundating him with burdens, thoughts, and fears too vast for time’s embrace—but his visage reveals a tranquil calm, and his eyes harbour undisturbed peace, teetering on the cusp of erupting into iridescent mirth. Clasped in his grasp is the young one, sprouting each turn of seasons into new echelons of allure and graceful radiance. In this secluded haven, they live out a fleeting span of joy—frolicking carefree, laundering quaint crockery, offering sustenance to the avians, and extracting nectar from the enigmatic chestnut cow that ever grazes in waiting upon the meadow.
“Dost thou reckon so?” queried the maiden as they ambled from the bovine creature with their burnished pail overflowing—the now grown girl still possessed her sporadic musings—
“Reckon what, O pallid as snow?”
“Once I fancied her noble blood—a Princess,” she mused with a coy chuckle that curled just as it once did, tinged with shadow.
“Yet we weave our tales alike now, dost we not?”
“Aye that we do,” approved he.
“And am I not monstrously tall? Speak true,” implored she.
“Not as of yet; thou art my grand diminutive maiden.”
“And thy affections shall endure though I burgeon to ghastly heights?”
“Aye even moreso every year—to accommodate thine enlargement.”
“I possess no dominion over such matters,” she confessed.
“Of course not; nor would I expect thee to,” he assured her.
“I shall ever fit thine embrace justly?” she speculated.
“For eternity plus another eternity,” he avowed solemnly.
“And thou shalt remain forever mine own sentinel?”
“Eternally thine.”
“This I proclaim for it is true—I adore thee,” whispered the child into the creeping dusk.
Thus, the pair traverse once more through the shadowed forest, where ferns unfurl with a whisper along their trail, and mayflowers gaze from beneath their leafy hideaways, whilst above, birds dart with silent wings and squirrels dart with eerie grace amongst the boughs – all is as it ever was in the deep, enigmatic woodland.
Yet, when the milk is secured in its place, Mark Ellery emerges from within his abode to stand beneath the towering buttonwood tree. There he lingers, shrouded in stillness, head bowed. The girl observes him thus, a somber silhouette against the dimming sky. She quietly approaches and embraces him from behind, resting her head upon his chest as silence envelops them both. In this profound hush, she understands that he communes with his innermost thoughts – a prayer that has become his very existence – one that she desires fervently to guide her own spirit and elevate it ever closer to his in this twilight realm. “Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me in its inscrutable embrace!”
THE END